The Shadow of Death
by Lala Kate
Summary: Something deadly yet unknown is stalking the residents of Storybrooke, and it falls to Regina to find both the cause and a cure. How far is she willing to go to protect those whom she loves? Set in the aftermath of the S3 finale.
1. Chapter 1

_So this hit me out of the blue last night as I was trying to go to sleep after watching the incredible season finale. I hope you enjoy it, and yes—it will be continued in a series of drabbles, probably 3-4 additional chapters. Dedicated to gazelle-legs, whose OQ prompt will eventually be fulfilled in this short story._

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There is no way in hell she is opening the door.

For days she has isolated herself, withdrawing into her house, fastening thick drapes, ignoring her phone, dwelling in silence. She counts ticks of the clock, stares at passing shadows on the ceiling, hears every creak as walls settle, lays immobile on her bed.

She wants to see no one. It hurts too damn much.

But the pounding is insistent, and it rattles in her head, knocking against her temples with the force of a jackhammer. Perhaps it's Henry, she thinks, the only person whose company she can stomach, the only person in her life who now matters.

_He_is no longer a part of her life…not since his wife emerged from a fractured past, not since the breath was torn from her lungs as he cried out the name of a dead woman.

_Marion_.

His wife now living because of Emma's interference, her life now dead in remission for her sins. God, what a fool she has been to think she could be happy, truly and inexplicably happy.

Villains aren't afforded happy endings, or even second chances, it would seem.

In his arms, she had felt youthful, giggly even as sensations long forgotten tickled her ribs like champagne, making her giddy and light, making her feel protected and warm. Shards of the girl she had been refastened into something new, something glorious and brilliant that lit her from within. But it was fragile, shattering almost the moment they had walked into Granny's as jagged edges marked her soul yet again, carving anguish into hope, leaving her too bruised to move.

Memories of kisses linger like honey on her tongue, the feel of hot hands stroking her skin, the sensation of being cherished so overwhelming it…it…

It hurts.

She wills herself to feel nothing, attempting to discipline her mind even while her heart rebels stubbornly, and she wraps a mantle of cold numbness around her insides, sealing herself off from anything and anyone who could maim her yet again. There are only so many mortal wounds a person can survive, and she has endured more than her share. No wonder her mother ripped out her own heart.

The pounding continues.

"I'm coming," she yells, knowing the offending party cannot hear her from her bedroom, but not giving a damn. She thrusts her body from her bed, and glides down the staircase, peering out to see who dares to disturb her solitude.

Archie? What the hell is he doing here?

"What do you want?" she questions as the door is slung open, and she purposely casts him a look few mortals can withstand. If he asks her about her emotional well-being, she will transform him back into a cricket on the spot.

"Regina," he states nervously, the fear in his eyes somewhat gratifying. "Thank God you answered."

"This had better be worth my time," she growls, narrowing her gaze even further. "I don't want to see anyone, especially not you."

He shuffles nervously in front of her, swallowing audibly.

"I'm aware of that, Regina," he stutters. "And I wouldn't disturb you if it weren't an emergency."

An emergency? Oh, God.

"Is Henry alright?"

The question flies out of her with urgency, her hand clutching her chest.

"Yes," he assures her. "Henry's fine, at least for now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She is in no mood to play guessing games, especially where her son is concerned.

"It means we have a problem," Archie expounds, clinching his hands nervously. "People are sick, Regina, very sick. And we don't know why."

"I'm not Dr. Whale," she bites, laying her hand on the door. "This is his area of expertise, not mine. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"He can't figure it out," Archie answers hastily. "None of the doctors can." He pauses, swallowing hard. "Regina, people are dying from a disease no one can identify. And it's spreading fast."

Spreading. Oh, God…Henry.

Robin.

"And you think I can help?"

Her tone is uncertain, and her pulse begins to race.

"People are beginning to believe it may be a curse, some sort of residual effect from the time portal Zelena opened, or even an illness brought back from the past." His expression chills her blood, as his hands fidget nervously. "We were hoping you might know what to do."

She senses there is more, something dreadful he is withholding.

"What are you not telling me?"

He stares at her guiltily, measuring his words.

"It's Roland. He has the worst case of it. Dr. Whale is afraid he doesn't have much time left."

Roland…God, not Roland, not a child,not_his_ child. Her heart skips a beat as an icy dread spikes across her limbs.

"And Robin?"

The words are barely audible, and time hovers motionless as she awaits his answer.

"He's sick, too," Archie confirms, his statement slamming into her with the force of a curse. "But not as critically as the boy."

Her body is trembling, unable to consider the possibility that either of them will die. They can't, they won't—she'll make certain of it.

"Where are they?"

"At the hospital," he answers, moving back as she steps out, slamming the door shut behind her. "Does this mean you'll help?"

She doesn't answer, there isn't time. Her feet move with urgency, her eyes and mind focused, her path set.

Roland. Robin. She will help them. She must.

The sky seems oddly overcast, but there is no scent of impending rain, no wind ushering in a storm. Something is not right, she realizes, and her skin tingles at the presence of a specter that shouldn't be. It bears the texture of something ancient, something forbidden.

Something cursed.

She begins to run, her lungs feeling almost leaden as if the air itself is thinning. Her feet carry her into the hospital, and she grabs the first orderly she sees, holding his lapels in tight fists as she watches him shrink back in fear.

"Roland—the boy who is so sick—where is he?"

It is then she registers that he is wearing a mask. Everyone is wearing a mask.

"Second floor," he breathes. "Isolation wing. But I wouldn't go up there if I were you."

She has already released the man, and dashes to the stairwell, too impatient to wait for the elevator, terrified she might be too late. Nothing can happen to the boy, she chants internally, wearing these thoughts like a mantra across her conscious mind.

Nothing can happen to _him_.

She spies Little John looking pale and shaken, and she is certain his mask is doing him no good, that he has already has contracted whatever malady is plaguing this town. There is a near deadness in his eyes that screams at her, that makes her stomach quiver.

"Where is he—Roland?"

The large man gestures to a room directly in front of them, a room that wreaks of inescapable darkness, and she feels invisible wisps of smoke fasten around her ankles, dragging her inside almost against her will. Her skin grows cold even as her pores burn feverishly, approaching an enemy she has no idea how to fight.

There is magic here, dark magic, but it is beyond her realm of knowledge, prickling the hairs on her neck painfully as it hovers just out of her grasp. She closes her eyes, attempting to focus on secrets that hum tantalizingly in her ear, yet they chant in an unknown tongue, keening an ancient melody too powerful to drown out.

Limbs begin to numb as she draws closer, as if all life is being sucked into a vacuum, one she cannot see but can sense with every hair on her body. The boy is on the bed, so lifeless her heart stills at the sight of him, but she somehow senses he lives.

"Regina."

Her heart cracks open.

She cannot look at him, but she has to. He is poison to her blood yet life to her lungs, and she finally meets his eyes, eyes heavy with grief and ashen with illness.

"Can you help him? Can you help Roland?"

He fears to hope, yet he must. This is his son, his heart, his everything lying on the verge of death.

God help her…as if God would listen to the pleas of a villain.

"I don't know," she whispers, wondering if Robin can hear what she hears, if he can sense what she feels. "But I'll fight for him with everything I have."

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_Penny for your thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

_Please allow me to thank each and every one of you wonderful readers who reviewed, followed or favorited this story. I have been overwhelmed by the support it has received, especially as I am new to writing for this fandom and these two amazing characters. I do read every review, even if time doesn't allow me to answer them all personally. So thank you again._

_Special thanks to Cls2011, a dear friend and passionate OQ shipper who has read and re-read several drafts of this chapter for me. This is for you, my friend. And to my dear miscreant rose who is still catching up on OuaT, thank you for being willing to read what I know cannot make much sense! _

_I obviously don't own these characters. I just invite them over for a play date now and again. And with that said, I hope you enjoy!_

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"Thank you, Regina."

His voice—God it breaks her open even as it binds her together. She aches to hold him, to lose herself in sheltering arms, to bury her pain in kisses that heal. But he is in peril, as is his son, a peril she senses everywhere but cannot identify, one that could snatch them from her in the blink of an eye, even if they are no longer hers to claim.

"I can't promise anything, you realize. I'm not certain what we're up against, Robin."

His face drops at her words, and her heart clenches as she voices his name. But there it is—still pulsing yet fragmented—the connection that has magnetized them together so fiercely, a passion that simmers, a need now forced into dormancy with the return of his wife.

God—his wife. The fact smacks her hard again, leaving yet another unseen mark.

She shoves it all aside, knowing she doesn't have time for emotions, knowing their price could be lives too precious to lose. Her focus sharpens, and she blocks every distraction, turning away from the man who could be her undoing, as well as his own.

"I understand," he manages, his voice almost leaden.

He is broken, she knows, just as she would be if it were Henry lying on that bed. No—she cannot allow herself to fall prey to the fear of what might happen, to give imagination license to paralyze and confuse. She shakes under the strain, wanting to scream, wanting to curse whatever is killing these two she has allowed to mean too much. If she could only burn it away or sever its connection, to stop this diabolical progression at its source. She must lose herself in the magic, connect to what is just out of reach in order to save them both—Robin and Roland, father and son.

Whatever it is, it oppressively lies hidden in menacing whispers, masked by dissonant tones that refuse to resolve and make her massage her temples. She has never experienced anything like it.

"What is it?" he questions. "Do you sense something?"

He doesn't hear what she does, she realizes, confirming it is something beyond this realm.

"Yes," she whispers, drawn to Roland's bed almost hypnotically, narrowing her eyes as if doing so will reveal her nemesis. Lungs burn as a fusion of heat and bitter cold fill every crevice, and she wonders why the child's breath doesn't seem labored as her own now feels. It is then she realizes how little his chest is moving, almost as if his body is nearing a coma, one from which he may never awake.

Damn whatever specter she is facing. She has to do something now.

She stretches her hand out instinctively, feeling the air simultaneously chill and stagnate as she draws closer to the boy. Fingers hover just over his arm, feeling a faint pulsing that matches the rhythm of a heart beat. She sniffs, her skin becoming clammy as she notes a faint odor she didn't detect when she first entered the room.

Blood? It can't be.

There is no sign of blood, no evidence of a fresh wound, but its scent is unmistakable, and she scans the room again, wondering if there is something she has missed.

"Are you bleeding?"

Her question takes him off guard, and he stares at her in a stupor, his lips nearly grey.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you bleeding?"

He buries his head in his hands, looking perilously close to passing out as he mumbles, "No. I don't think so."

He sounds drunk as his eyes roll back into their sockets, and she knows she is losing him. She can't—not Robin—not like this.

"Doctor Whale!"

Her cry draws a nurse's attention immediately, one who takes inventory of the situation and runs to alert the man in question.

"Hold on," she pleas, rushing to Robin's side instinctively. "Don't you leave me again."

Heavy eyes blink back at her in a fog, but she refuses to flinch, grabbing on to him for dear life, nearly losing her breath as her fingers burn painfully against his jacket. "Look at me, Robin. God damn it, look at me!"

His gasp is loud as his eyes attempt to refocus, a faint hint of color returning to his face.

"What happened?"

He scans the room, his confusion evident.

"Regina," he breathes, grabbing hold of her hard. "Are you alright?"

It is then she realizes how sickly her hands now look, how difficult it is to breathe, how her head is swimming in a grey fog that sticks to her skin like syrup. She releases him, and he slumps back slowly, his face losing all color once more as her lungs are released from a vice.

"I don't know," she admits, examining her hands in wonder, touching them gingerly as their color returns, watching in horror as he begins to slip yet again. She moves back to Roland, wondering, needing to know if what just happened is a clue to what they are up against or just an anomaly.

Her lungs thump as her hand clasps the boy's shoulder, and she feels as if all of the wind has been knocked out of her, as if she is being pulled into a tunnel with no end in sight. Her skin burns, her muscles chill, and a dull ache thuds through bone and marrow.

Then long lashes stir, and the child's eyes flicker open.

"Roland."

Her voice reverberates in her head, echoing across tendons, and she watches him focus, trying to remember, doing his best to understand.

"Help me."

She feels more than hears the words, and they strike her in the gut, swirling around precariously until she feels as if she might vomit.

"I'm trying, Roland," she tells him, wondering why her voice sounds so foreign, so detached. "Maybe you can help me help you."

His small brow creases as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

"How?"

Her fingers are numb now from clasping him so ferociously, as if her grip and her grip alone is keeping the boy from hurdling over a ledge.

"Can you tell me what's making you sick?" she questions, her tongue thick and uncooperative. "Did you see anything strange or touch anything unusual?"

He shakes his head, his eyes focusing for the first time.

The room is spinning precariously, and she can't feel her extremities at all. She has to release him, she knows this, but she doesn't want to, fearing he'll fall fast if she does.

"It's the shadow."

His statement stills her movement, and she forces herself to hang on and breathe, wondering if she heard him correctly.

"Shadow?" she repeats slowly. "What shadow?"

She has difficulty forming the words, fighting off paralyzing fear with everything she has.

"The one inside of me."

Her eyes round, her breath sticking painfully in her throat.

"Tell me, Roland."

Coughs rack the child's body, and she feels their reverberations everywhere.

"Hard to see."

She wades through heavy fog, forcing her mind to remain alert, honing in on the life force still burning in his chest.

"But I can hear it," he mutters, his eyes fighting to remain open, his words wrapping around her like talons.

"It speaks to you?"

Tightened ribs feel every thump of her heart, her throat now completely raw.

"No," Roland whispers. "It sings."

Oh, God.

A cold sheen breaks out across her arms as her mouth dries. Does he hear what she hears, she wonders, disjointed melodies filled with indiscernible chant that beckon and disorient?

"Roland, can you understand what it's saying?"

"No," he voices hoarsely. "It scares me."

She hugs him to her chest, kissing his forehead with frozen lips, fighting back internal screams as her lungs feel ready to explode. She won't let whatever it his take him. Not this boy. Not Roland.

"Help me," he whispers again, clasping her blouse, pulling tears from her eyes that spill into his hair.

"I will, Roland," she insists, imprinting her promise into his skin. "I will help you."

She releases him with heavy reluctance, wiping away more tears as her muscles tingle in relief. He is sliding back, she sees it immediately, and she doesn't know what to do. She cannot lose him…not now. Not ever.

Then it dawns on her slowly, slugging through her muddled mind. It's not a curse they're up against but a presence, a spirit, a dark phantom of sorts. Something that speaks to those it possesses, something she can hear faintly through layers of mist. A demon? Prickles dot across her skin, a shiver she feels to her depths rocking her frame.

Whatever it's form, it is sucking the life out of the boy in front of her, trying to bite into her own flesh when she forges a connection with him.

Her lips are still numb.

"Regina."

Dr. Whale stands in the doorway, his mask in place.

She moves to him immediately, grabbing his arm and pulling him to Roland's bed. There is no sickness in him, no residue that tries to pull her under.

"I need you to touch him," she instructs, watching his brows draw up in surprise.

"We don't know what we're dealing with here, Regina," he returns, shaking his head. "I can't help anyone else if I get myself infected."

"It's my understanding that you can't help anyone now," she tosses back, her fingers and toes cramping painfully as sensation returns. "I'm trying to get to the bottom of this to see what needs to be done."

Her voice is stronger now, the ringing in her ears decreasing in volume. But Roland—he is almost as pale as he had been before she touched him.

"Is it a curse, then?" the doctor questions, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't think so," she replies, her lungs still tingling. "Roland called it a shadow."

"Wait—he spoke to you?"

It is Robin who asks, his mouth slurring the words as he fights to remain alert.

"Yes," she assures him. "Can you hear it?"

He shakes his head, grimacing.

"Hear what?"

"The shadow," she states, waiting for his reaction, seeing nothing in return but a blank stare. "What does it look like? How did it get into you?"

Time seems to hover as his brow contorts in confusion. God—perhaps he sees something, something that can unlock the mystery, something that will let her know what to do. Her pulse accelerates in fear, in anticipation, in dread, in scorching need.

"Robin?"

She stares at him closely, kneeling down much too close.

"What shadow?" he manages, sliding down into his chair as his eyes fall shut, her hopes sinking to the floor along with him.


End file.
